


And The Radio Says This Is A Low

by WittyPenName



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Disorder, Cat Lady Tony, FrostIron - Freeform, Head Injury, IronFrost - Freeform, M/M, Magic, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Snarky Cat Jarvis, Teacher Tony, Time-line fiddling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WittyPenName/pseuds/WittyPenName
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But it won't hurt you. </p><p> </p><p>In which Anthony Stark is a high school science teacher in New York City, with a habit of staring at places where buildings ought to be, Loki is the strange man with an inviting British accent who distracts him from life, and things aren't at all what they seem to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I know I've started this without finishing my last one, but I honestly had no idea where to go from there. I've got a couple of people helping me out, so hopefully I'll post another chapter soon. This fanfic, however, is mostly planned out, so I (hopefully) won't drop off the face of the planet with it. I'll probably update a couple times a week.

Anthony looked idly at the unsold plot of land in the center of New York, two shakes from Grand Central, and wondered just how long it’d been that way. From his seat at the small outdoor café, he could see the area well, and there was a distinctly empty place on the horizon, almost like someone had reached down and plucked a building from the skyline, and discarded it without a thought.

A strange thought, Anthony conceded. He’d walked these streets for years and he’d never felt like it needed more buildings. IF anything, he preferred there be significantly less. He’d have loved retiring to the country side someday. A small house, a loving wife, no kids. Ever. He got enough of kids for a lifetime. Anthony knew exactly how that would go. They’d be all adorable and curious and wonderful, and then they’d become teenagers and you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from remembering the good old days when they listened to you and you’d start to wonder where it all went wrong; was this your fault? Could you have done something different?

He was getting a headache just thinking about it. 

Still, as he looked at the city’s skyline, he couldn’t help but think there was something wrong with it. Maybe he’d put something there, just there on the plot of empty space above Grand Central Station, when he was rich and famous and financially capable enough to afford building a giant garish tower that was a blemish on the New York skyline. 

He laughed at the thought.

Anthony Stark was thirty-six years old and living in a shitty apartment with his cat on a high school science teacher’s salary. Well, living probably wasn’t the right word for it. Maybe surviving, or scraping by – something that heavily implied that he was living paycheck to paycheck, and that sometimes that wasn’t enough. 

A bell chimed in the distance, snapping him out of his reverie. He sipped at his coffee, counting the bells – five, six, seven, eight (shit) times. He was going to be late. He couldn’t exactly survive paycheck to paycheck if the paychecks stopped coming. 

Grabbing his backpack, he threw some cash on the table and darted off to work. 

 

Mondays were never easy for Anthony Stark, and by the end of the day he looked and felt like he’d run a marathon. He had detention with a couple of kids (surprise, surprise), which he spent on Craigslist, looking at classic cars he could only pretend he could afford. Finally, around four-thirty, he was free to go. He took the sub back to his street, stopping at the grocer’s for a loaf of bread and a bag of instant coffee, then climbed the steps to the fifth floor. 

Pushing into his apartment, he found the cat curled up on his bed, only opening one eye at the intrusion on its precious sleep, before stretching out and idly licking its paw. 

“Hey buddy,” Anthony sat next to the ball of black and white fur, reaching over to scratch under its chin. “Look, Jarvis, we need to have a talk.” He crooned, “See, we don’t have all that much money and a lot of what we have is going towards those fancy dinners you love so much. Now, I know we’ve tried this before, but I think it’s time we give it another go. I’m going to buy you the generic version - significantly cheaper, only slightly less appetizing – and we might actually be able to afford good food for me. What do you say, bud?”

The cat gave him a look, then stood, stretched, and padded over to the litter box to make a deposit. The action clearly said ‘Try it and you’ll find this in your shoes.’ Anthony scowled. 

“Fine.” He stood and took out the papers he need to grade, placing them on the kitchen table. “But you’re gonna have to get a job.”

 

The rest of the week was mostly uneventful. Each morning, Anthony found himself in the same little outdoor café, with the same cup of hot coffee, looking at the same blank spot on the horizon, and wondering why someone hadn’t bought up the advantageous plot of land years ago. 

By Friday he was designing a building that would fit there. Something handsome, not too garish, that would fit the aesthetic of the area. Maybe he could draw inspiration from Grand Central, since it was basically attached. He found himself back at the café on Saturday, this time with a sketchbook and some art supplies in hand. He wasn’t the best artist, but he could manage schematics and blueprints, so how hard could a skyline be? 

Very hard, as it turned out. Perspective was a bitch, when it came down to it. A cruel and cold bitch that could go fuck herself with her own ruler for all Anthony cared. He let out a deep sigh, erased a couple of lines, tried again, then ran a hand through his coarse hair, staring wistfully at the empty spot. 

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” said a cool voice. Anthony looked over at the stranger. He was sitting at the next table, twisted around to face Anthony, a cup of hot tea in his hands. A handsome sort, clear green eyes, black hair slicked back, but still waving, curling around his ears. He was dressed in a crisp black button-down, the sleeves delicately folded up to his elbows. Very British, Anthony concluded.  
“Excuse me?” He murmured. The man smiled, his eyes crinkling around the edges. 

“I said, ‘feels weird, doesn’t it?’ Like there’s something missing. I don’t know… A building or something. Right there,” he pointed, “On the skyline.”

Anthony chuckled a little, “It’s like you can read my mind. I’ve been thinking that same thing for the past week. I’ve even brought this, trying to figure out what belongs there.” He motioned to his sketchbook, “Just, well, nothing seems to fit right.”

“May I?” The man gave him a charming smile and Anthony couldn’t help but oblige him. He stared at the picture and hummed, then nodded, “I think I know what the problem is.”  
“Do you? Is it that I’m terrible at perspective? ‘Cause I already knew that. I’m a scientist, not an artist.” The man gave a surprised smile, but before Anthony could decipher it, he was speaking in that inviting British accent again.  
“No, not that. You’ve made the building too small, too forgettable. It should stand out.”

Stark considered it for a moment. He wasn’t really a flashy guy. Maybe that’s why all of his ideas for the building were falling flat (although that could’ve been the shoddy perspective.)

“Guess someone else should design it, then. I’m all for not standing out.”

“Are you?” The man’s demeanor changed suddenly, as if he wasn’t expecting that answer from Anthony, and he was disappointed. 

“I’m sorry, have we met?”

There was a pause, then, “No. No, we haven’t.” 

Anthony frowned. He downed the rest of his coffee, suddenly uncomfortable around this stranger, collected his things and stood quickly. He managed a ‘Have a nice day,’ before rushing away from the café, not looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony sat up most of the night, thinking about the man at the café. He wasn’t sure what about the conversation had upset him so much, but he’d left in a hurry and without even exchanging names. That’s probably why he didn’t have many friends, come to think of it. He was about as good with people as he was with perspective (was he really still upset about that? Just pick up and art book and shut up about it!)

Jarvis was curled up at the end of the bed, its fat stomach heaving with the deep breathing of good, solid sleep. In a fit of jealousy, Anthony nudged the mound with his foot. The cat began to purr loudly. 

Anthony stretched out and wondered if he should just try to sleep in – catch up on the rest he hadn’t gotten that night. His mind rejected the idea, refusing to let his eyelids stay closed, and demanding coffee. Slowly, he got up, rubbing the various knots in his back. He needed to get a new mattress. This one didn’t quite count as one anymore, existing solidly between waffle iron and brick. It would be nice to wake up and not have knots more intricate than a sailor’s. 

A new mattress. That would be the first thing he bought when he was a billionaire. 

God, his head hurt. He felt like he had a hangover. Or, at least, what he thought a hangover would feel like. He wasn’t really all that big on drinking; even in college he’d avoided it. He’d never been black-out drunk, and sometimes he wondered if he was missing out. Maybe a walk would do him some good. He’d head down to the park – people-watch, feed some ducks, get hot tea at a small café… Not that café, though. Just in case that man was there again. He didn’t feel like explaining his rude disappearing act from yesterday. 

After tugging on some shoes and dropping some wet cat food on a plate, he checked the time and darted out the doors. It was a nice day – a little cloudy – but warm and breezy. The park had that nice, autumnal smell about it, and Anthony was content enough to sit on a bench and sip at the tea he’d purchased at the grocer’s. 

A lot of people seemed to have had the same idea as him, filling up the little walkways of the park and setting up picnics on the grass. Anthony closed his eyes, enjoying the snippets of conversation of the passerby. Then someone said ‘Hello, again,’ much closer than he was expecting and boy, did that voice sound familiar. Opening his eyes, he found himself face to face (well, face to crotch, really) with the man from yesterday. 

“Mind if I join you?” The man said, motioning to the empty portion of the bench. 

“Depends,” Anthony started, before he had time to think about it, “Are you following me?” 

The man looked as though he was considering it for a moment, then he smiled and turned back to the other, “I might be. What would you do if I were?”

Anthony honestly didn’t expect the man to be so honest about it. He furrowed his brow and frowned a little, but, before he could say anything, the man was sitting next to him. Instinctively he moved a little, giving the man more room to sit. For a moment or two there was silence. Not quite uncomfortable silence, but certainly a little tense. Anthony closed his eyes again, determined to relax like he came here to do. He listened in on more conversations, occasionally hearing the man shift or sip at a cup of coffee Anthony hadn’t realized he’d had. 

Anthony shifted his attention, picking up on a conversation between two women. They were going on about Jaime, poor sweet Jamie, such a good boy, didn’t deserve the hell he went through. The younger woman spoke next, asking what had happened and Anthony could almost picture the look of faux sadness on the elder woman’s face. No doubt she was truly heartbroken over Poor-Sweet-Jaime, but this story had become hers to tell and, far away from the danger that Poor-Sweet-Jaime had faced, it was just another way to get attention. 

“Got himself a POW with another member of his platoon. Out in Afghanistan, they say.” Anthony’s heart lurched.

“POW? What’s that then?”

“Prisoner of war. Got captured by one of them extremist groups. Hear tell that his buddy got killed. Jaime got away, but not before getting blown to bits. Say he’s got a prosthetic leg now.”

Anthony had stopped listening around ‘blown to bits’, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. That was a weird sensation. It felt like his heart was trying to beat its way through his chest, like the ground was disappearing around his feet and the piece he was standing on was slick with oil; one wrong move and he’d slip and fall into the abyss. His breath came quick, slipping into his mouth, touching the back of his throat, then escaping before it reached his lungs. 

He didn’t remember hitting the ground, but when he finally managed to focus, there was a crowd of people around him and the man was calling his name. (Except he was saying ‘Tony’ over and over again and, Jesus, no one’s called him that since his mom died when he was twelve. 

“Tony, look at me. I need an answer, Tony. Do you need an ambulance?” Anthony furrowed his brows again and considered it. No, probably not. He seemed to be breathing better now (possibly because of the firm hand of his chest) and his heart was only skipping a few times. He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Alright, take it easy. How about I get you home, hm? You’ll have to direct me, but here, I’ll help you walk.”

And then they were standing and the man was wrapping Anthony’s arm around his shoulders, those broad, angular things supporting his weight with ease. The crowd dispersed, allowing them to walk, slowly, towards the exit of the park.

It wasn’t until they were about halfway to Anthony’s apartment that he realized he could probably walk just fine on his own. He mentioned this and they parted on the condition that the man be allowed to walk with him, just to make sure he got home alright. 

The man followed him up the steps and Anthony welcomed him into the small apartment (despite the warning in the back of his mind that he wouldn’t be able to run away this time.)

Jarvis woke with a start and darted under the bed, an unusual response to company for the lazy cat. He usually flourished when they had visitors, demanding extra attention from all humans for the entire visit, and for days after. 

“Jarvis, it’s just a guest. You’re never this fidgety.”

“Jarvis?” The man gave Anthony a questioning smile, accompanied by a tilt of his head. 

“Er.. Yeah, ‘Just-A-Really-Very-Irritating-Stray.” Anthony explained, returning a sheepish smile. He was embarrassed for both of them that he hadn’t come up with something better when he found the cat. 

“Ah,” he chuckled, “J-A-R-V-I-S. Cute name.” 

Anthony smiled. Speaking of names, “I never caught yours.”

The man’s smile deflated a little. Anthony could tell (he wasn’t sure how) that he was trying to come up with a believable lie. It happened in a flash, a little quirk of his lips, or one too many blinks, Anthony wasn’t sure. The man sighed in resignation.

“Loki. My name is Loki.” 

“Like the Norse god of mischief?” Tony chuckled, reaching for a glass and filling it with tap water. 

“Just so.” Was the short reply. “And you’re Tony, right? I saw it on your debt card yesterday at the café. Please forgive me, I was curious.”

Anthony gave a quick, nervous smile, “It’s Anthony, actually. Only my mom called me Tony, and that stopped when I was twelve.” He sipped at his water, then added, “Car accident,” on a whim. 

“Oh,” the man frowned, “My condolences.”

There was another moment of silence between the two, then. Anthony sat on the bed and sipped at his water, wondering if he should go to the hospital. Maybe he’d had a heart attack, or a stroke, or something else very serious. It had felt serious. The man, Loki, had wandered over to the window and was peering down at the street with that look people get when they’re reminiscing. 

“Do you have a heart condition?” Loki asked, turning. Anthony frowned. It was a little late to be asking, and what was the deal with all this mind-reading, anyway?  
“Well, not last I checked. I don’t think I even have a family history of it. I suppose I could ask my dad…”

“Your father is alive?” There was that head tilt again. Anthony was too distracted by the bizarre question to notice. 

“Well, uhh, I suppose, in a way. If you can call it living.”

Loki looked taken aback, as if he hadn’t intended to say it out loud. He rubbed his forehead with long, graceful fingers, sighing. 

“Please forgive me. My head’s not where it should be. Guess I’m still frazzled by your little incident at the park.” 

“How do you think I feel?” Anthony chuckled. Wasn’t he the one who had the ‘little incident’? “Still trying to figure out if I should go to the hospital.”

Loki eyebrows furrowed at that, “Whatever would you need to go to the hospital for?”

“Uhh, mystery ailment that just caused me to stop breathing and collapse in the middle of Bryant park?” The other man gave a short chuckle. 

“Haven’t you ever had a panic attack before?”


	3. Chapter 3

Loki left soon after, with strict orders to drink more water, take a bubble bath, go to bed early, and not think too hard about it, (because you’ll probably just have another one.) Anthony didn’t agree with the man’s diagnosis. What would he possibly be having panic attacks for? Sure, his life wasn’t perfect, but he was content. He didn’t have any undue stress, despite working with teenagers, and maybe he didn’t have much (any) spending money, but he was alive and that’s what mattered. 

Loki mentioned that some people had triggers they didn’t know about; that maybe he heard something in the park that set him off. It was perfectly normal, the man reminded him. Then he said that if Anthony figured it out, he should update him. 

Anthony was now sitting in a bath full of steaming water and an overwhelming lavender bubble bath concoction he had no memory of purchasing. He waxed less-than-romantic to Jarvis (curled up in the sink like he belonged there) that it was a dreadful experience, as he knew it would be, and he’d never take another bubble bath again, taking care to mention how it was equivalent to sitting in your own filth, and it was likely unhealthy, and who would do this to themselves, really, it’s awful. 

Jarvis’ eyes opened briefly, giving Anthony a look that said, ‘You’re only fooling yourself. We both can tell how relaxed you are right now,’ and Anthony had to concede that his cat was probably right. 

As Anthony was settling into bed (later on, after he had to coerce Jarvis into getting off his towel, as the cat had moved there when Anthony had splashed him with water), he wondered whether he’d ever see Loki again. Manhattan was not a small area, and it was surprising that he’d bumped into him twice in as many days. 

Although, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Anthony didn’t have a tremendous amount of friends in the area (in general, actually), and the ones he had lived upstate or out in California. Perhaps they all ran into each other daily. Perhaps that was normal. 

He started losing his train of thought at some point, the topic turning from his friends to parties, to Loki, to money, to a giant gaudy tower with his name emblazoned on the side in bright lights, five stories tall, then back to Loki, who was standing on the balcony wearing a strange outfit – all leather and gold – saying “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t realize he’d been asleep until the alarm went off, declaring it seven ‘o’clock. _Work today_ , he thought, _maybe it’ll take my mind off… everything._

Sighing and yawning, he stood, downed a cup of bitter instant coffee, and headed off to work. It was, once again, a fairly uneventful week. By Thursday, the most interesting thing to happen was one of the students getting detention for commandeering the intercom systems and playing ‘I Am Iron Man’ on repeat. 

It took staff twenty minutes to break into the main office, only to discover that opening the door changed the song to ‘Baby Got Back’ and that the whole system had been rewired and was currently being broadcast from the catwalk in the auditorium. 

When Anthony found out which student it was (one Pietro Maximoff, whose sister was currently acing his AP Chem class, and whose own grades were dismal at best) he made a mental promise to give him an A on his next biology test. It would certainly help his grade, if only a little, and Anthony had a soft-spot for tricksters. 

Still, as far as excitement goes, it was a pretty average week, and by Friday Anthony had completely forgotten about the strange man named Loki, who’d known his name despite the fact that Anthony never used his debt card, and about the panic attack in the park. 

Then, Friday afternoon happened and he was all but forced to recall those memories.

It happened like this: He’d sat his students down to watch a documentary – something about nuclear power – that would distract the rowdier students for a bit, while he graded their tests. The documentary delved into obvious things, like the Chernobyl reactor, and splitting of the atom, then would explain nuclear weaponry while giving a short history of bombs in warfare. He’d seen it a hundred times with a hundred classes filled with disinterested looks, but this time was different. 

For some reason, when the narrator said nuclear bombs, his heart lurched. His breathing got short and that feeling that his lungs weren’t working right came back, overwhelming him. 

Anthony stood quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself. He made it to the door that opened into the next class over, and gave it a stern knock. It didn’t take long for Ms. Hill, a pretty but severe young English teacher, to open the door. 

“Everything alright, Mr. Stark?” She gave him a worried glance, but was polite enough to keep her voice down. 

“Just feeling a little queasy. Do you mind watching them while I go to the restroom? They’re halfway through a documentary.”

“Alright,” she nodded, “But you should go see Mr. Banner.”

Anthony gave her a wry smiles and said, “I might have to,” before leaving his classroom. He darted into an empty men’s room and turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. His breathing still felt wrong. Maybe Loki had been wrong. Maybe it was something more serious. 

But then, when he thought about it, he remembered hearing the words ‘nuclear bomb’, before his breathing and heart rate got all wonky. And, in the park, the last thing he remembered before blacking out was the conversation between the two women about Poor-Sweet-Jaime, the prisoner of war. Were these the triggers Loki had mentioned? It didn’t make any sense. Why would these things be his triggers? He’d never gone to war, never been a prisoner, never even seen a bomb outside of documentaries and the occasional action flick. Maybe it was a past life thing. Maybe he’d been in Hiroshima or Nagasaki.

It took him a few minutes to realize there was a firm hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. Someone was saying his name, but the voice wasn’t as cool or crisp or British as he’d expected it to be, nor was it saying ‘Tony’ like he was beginning to prefer. 

“Mr. Stark? Anthony?” It was the principal. Anthony managed to look up after a moment, studying the man’s face and trying to place where he’d seen it before, despite the fact that he saw it damn near every day. “Are you alright, Anthony?” 

He was on the floor again. How did that keep happening? This time his face was wet with tears and he was clutching at his shirt, his hands oddly near his heart. Mr. Banner was next to him, but it was Mr. Coulson who was talking, his stable voice drawing his attention to the present. 

“I… I’ve never been to war.” He heard his voice shake out. It wasn’t what he meant to say. He meant to say he was fine, that it’d just been a panic attack. Banner was checking his heart rate and blood pressure with one of those cuffs, distracting him from whatever Coulson said next. The nurse gave him a smile that might have been comforting, but ended up more apologetic. 

“Anthony,” Coulson was speaking again, “I know you’ve never been to war. We can talk about that at great length another time, if you’d like. For now, can you tell me why you’ve been sitting on the floor in the men’s lavatory for the past forty minutes?”

He had to think about it for a moment, then, “Panic attack,” he managed. Had it really been forty minutes? There was movement around him, and suddenly there was a gurney in his view. “Really? You called an ambulance? I’m fine.” Phil smiled at him, and gods was that smile well-practiced. Anthony had the feeling that Coulson had been a con-man or a secret agent in his past life; someone who could tell a good lie and charm you into anything. 

“You were completely unresponsive when Bruce found you twenty minutes ago.” What an odd smile, “You’re going to the hospital.” Phil’s words brokered no argument, so Anthony obliged him, on the condition that he walked himself out to the ambulance. The condition was immediately refused due to insurance reasons.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter as much. I was watching Supernatural while writing the beginning, so I didn't give it my full attention and it's pretty obvious that my writing suffered for it.

After his trip to the hospital (where they discovered that he was fit as a fiddle – if a little underfed – and the problem was probably psychological) Coulson informed him that, until he was mentally capable of returning to work, he’d be going on an extended holiday, paid, and that his job would be waiting for him when he returned. Anthony wanted to refuse but Phil had a way of getting the last word. 

Anthony also received a few business cards from the hospital for specialists he could talk to. He was asked to make an appointment by the end of the weekend and keep the school updated on his progress. When he got home that night he selected a random card and dialed the number, making an appointment for Tuesday afternoon. He hung up feeling just a little bit more useless than usual. 

He slept sporadically through the rest of the day and watched bad infomercials to pass the early morning hours. Around eleven am he went out to the park, hoping a little fresh air would help him relax. In the back of his mind he also hoped Loki would be there. He wanted to tell him he might’ve figured it out, but by four the man still hadn’t passed by and Anthony began to get hungry. 

He headed back to his apartment to feed Jarvis (who’d likely clawed up the furniture in a fit of rebellious hunger) and see what he could scrounge up for himself. After that he was pretty content to just sit and watch reruns on his tiny, ancient television. 

There was a knock on the door around nine or ten; halfway through an episode of the Big Bang Theory, that he wasn’t enjoying as much as he usually did. He sat up and wandered over to the door, peeking through the little peep-hole. On the other side was a streak of black, curling around a handsome face. Anthony opened the door with a small smile. 

“Heard you went to the hospital.” Loki said, returning the smile

“And may I ask where you heard that?”

Loki shrugged conspiratorially, “You’ve got gossipy co-workers.” He grinned and Anthony knew he wouldn’t get any more out of him on the subject. 

For a moment the taller man just smiled, then he flicked his eyes into the apartment. Anthony got the hint and stepped aside to let him in, watching as Loki ambled past and got comfortable on the end of the bed. 

“I didn’t take you for a fan of sitcoms.” He said. Anthony only shrugged and sat next to him, careful to leave some space between them, “Have you had dinner, Tony?”

“Uhh, I ate a sandwich about an hour ago.” He admitted. 

“Oh, damn. I’m hungry. Come for a walk with me.”

Anthony turned and studied Loki’s face for a moment, taking in his crinkling eyes, high cheekbones, pleasant smile. Nodding once, he pulled on a clean shirt and shoes, and followed the other man to the door, giving strict instructions to Jarvis to watch the place, and that he was not to have any crazy parties while he was gone (at which point, Loki told the cat that of course he could have parties, daddy was just being stingy, and that crazy parties were an essential and important part of youth and, really, anyone who didn’t have a crazy party every now and then was wasting their life.)

They made it to the street, still discussing how lenient Loki was with Jarvis, and how he would likely end up one of those wild cats who spent all day sniffing catnip and knocking up neighbor cats. 

They walked until they reached a little late-night bistro, ordering sandwiches and picking at them between lengthy conversation. After the late meal, they took the long way home, walking through the empty park. Their discussion moved on to mechanics at one point, and Anthony had to admit, he wasn’t all that informed on the subject. 

“Really?” Loki looked at him; a curious tilt of the head.

“Why do you do that? It’s like you expected something different, even though you don’t know me.”

“You just seem like you would know your way around an engine, that’s all.” Loki chuckled, and Anthony couldn’t stay mad. Not when he laughed like that. 

“No,” Anthony admitted, “That was my father’s lot in life. He used to own a garage out in Malibu. Boy, should’ve seen the vintage cars that would roll through there.”

Loki smiled wistfully, pulling a little closer. 

 

They got back to the apartment complex around one and, as they passed by the grocer’s, Loki stopped and peered in. 

“It’s still open.” He smiled. Anthony only nodded in response, “We should get a bottle of wine.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.” Loki looked appalled. He pulled the shorter man close and cradled his face in cool hands as he stared into the other’s chocolate eyes.

“What have they done to you?” He exclaimed in a loud and demanding voice. Anthony could only shrug, looking baffled, “Don’t worry, Tony,” he continued, “I’ll fix you.”

The man disappeared into the store, returning minutes later with a bottle of some expensive looking red wine. He chuckled mischievously, and darted up the steps to the apartment. Anthony finally caught up (inside the apartment, and how did he get in without keys?) Loki was pouring the drink into two mugs. 

“You don’t have any wine glasses.” He pouted, “Or glass anything, really.”

“I used to, didn’t I, Jarvis?” Anthony gave the cat a heated glare before a mug was pushed into his hands. He smiled, sniffed the wine a little, then wrinkled his nose on impulse. Loki only chuckled again. 

After his first couple of sips (complete with accompanying looks of disgust,) he began to drink a little easier; not quite savoring the flavor, or enjoying it at all, really, but accepting that Loki intended to polish off the bottle that night, and demanded his help. 

At some point they’d made it to the bed, settling close to each other and flipping through the few channels he had on his small TV set. Around four in the morning they were lying down, facing each other, and talking. Mostly they talked about Tony – what his childhood was like (average), what his parents were like (caring), where his dad was now –

“He’s still out in California. I’ve got an aunt taking care of him.” He slurred, his eyes threatening to drift closed. 

“Why’s he need taking care of?”

“There was an accident.”

“The one with your mother?”

“No, later one. Must’ve been, I dunno.” Anthony sighed, his brain sluggish, “Two-r-three years later? Anyways, my dad’s got this old clunker, Morris Minor, or some piece of shit from the sixties. It’s up on the lift though, and he’s dealing with the tailpipe – rusted to all hell – and the lift fucking shifts, right? So my dad knows he’s gotta get outta there but he doesn’t quite make it. One of the arms just snaps right off and the car tilts really quick. 

“Some of his guys were there and they said the door just flung right open and smacked his head real good. So now he’s concussed and pinned to the ground and he’s not responding. Took five big guys and winch to get the rust bucket offa him. Anyways, one frantic call to 9-1-1 and an ambulance ride later, they find out he’s snapped his back and mushed up his brain. He’s paralyzed now, from the chest down anyway, and he can’t remember shit like he used to. It’s kinda like Alzheimer’s. I don’t really visit that often. I mean, he doesn’t usually recognize me anyway.”

Anthony doesn’t miss Loki’s frown, or the way he shifts closer. 

“What about your parents? What they like?”

“I… Was adopted. I don’t get on well with my adoptive family. I really should, though. They’re good people, and I’m pretty sure my blood relatives are monsters. I could’ve had it much worse, to be honest.” 

They grow quiet after that. At some point the TV gets turned off, and at another there are blankets over them. It didn’t take long after that for Anthony to fall asleep. 

That night he dreams of the tower again. He was pouring himself a drink and talking to someone he couldn’t quite see. The someone’s voice was very familiar, though. He offered the someone a drink, then the dream shifted. The someone was Loki but he looked tired and stretched too thin and he was holding Tony by the throat (Tony, always Tony, not Anthony, don’t call me Anthony) and saying, “You’ve almost got it, Stark. Just wake up. If you just wake up, everything will be fine.” And then he was flying through a window and falling, falling, falling until everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony woke alone, around twelve-forty, to Jarvis’ incessant chirping. Looking around, he noticed the apartment was distinctly empty. There wasn’t even a trace of the previous night’s events; the mugs all clean and in the cupboards and no wine bottles in sight. Tony had just begun to think it had been a dream (because, really, he wouldn’t just start drinking booze on a stranger’s whim) when he saw a neatly folded letter on the bedside table. 

He slid it closer, too nervous to open it at first. It said ‘Tony’ on the front, in delicate, curling letters, and he stopped to consider them for a moment. Who had handwriting that disgustingly perfect, anyway? Finally he unfolded it and read its contents.

‘Sorry for my early departure. I had business to  
attend to, and you looked so peaceful. I fed  
Jarvis, poor dear looked starving. Don’t forget  
to relax; bubble bath, good books, etc.  
Sincerely, Loki  
P.S. 555-9338 – call if you need me!’

Tony tried to fight back a smile, but he couldn’t stop the goofy grin that spread across his face. He’d gotten someone’ phone number; someone who was honestly interested in seeing him again. This didn’t happen very often for him. He wondered when an appropriate time to call would be. How long should he wait? What time of day would be best? What if Loki was busy? Oh gods, what if he called when the man was at work, or worse, in a business meeting?’

Suddenly, Tony realized that friendships were a lot more difficult than he remembered them being. His phone buzzed its way across the bedside table. Maybe it was Loki and he wouldn’t have to worry about when to call, because the other man would do all the calling between them. The thought calmed him as he reached for his phone. The screen flashed ‘Prin. Coulson’, however, and he sighed and answered with a sleepy ‘hello’. 

“Good afternoon, Anthony.” Afternoon? Really??

He checked the clock in the kitchen and frowned, just as he said, “Tony. Call me Tony.”

“Since when were you Tony? I thought you hated that nickname.” He hadn’t even realized he’d said it, really. 

“Just thought I’d take it for a test drive.” He managed, mentally slapping himself. 

“Right,” Phil’s all-too-steady voice echoed, “Well, I was just checking in on you. Did you make that appointment?”

“Yeah, Tuesday.” Jarvis jumped up on the bed next to him, sniffed him, then wandered to his pillow and curled up on it, cleaning himself. 

“That’s good. Keep me updated.” Tony responded with a murmured ‘sure’, and Phil bade him a good day, hanging up. After the short conversation, Tony realized he had the next two days to kill before his appointment. 

He spent most of his time in the park. The trees were all beginning to change color with the season, and the colors were soothing to him. He wondered blithely if this couldn’t be his therapy, instead of discussing emotions and feelings with some stranger. Maybe he could just live up in New Hampshire, in the middle of a forest. Near a lake… On a dirt road that people didn’t realize was there. Yeah, that sounded nice. Maybe Loki could go with him. 

And what was it with his sudden fascination with Loki, anyway? Hadn’t he basically admitted he’d been following Anthony? And last night he’d let the strange man get him drunk, and now Tony wanted to invite him to New Hampshire with him, and wow, Tony was well-and-truly fucked, wasn’t he? At least he’d have a lot to talk about in therapy. 

 

Tuesday rolled around sooner than expected, and Tony found himself sat on a plush-but-ugly sofa in a pale-blue waiting room, flipping through celebrity gossip rags, and trying desperately to focus on an article to distract himself. It wasn’t working. He was fairly certain he’d read the same line seven times, and even more certain that the clock’s minute hand was stuck. There were a few other occupants of the waiting room, but they paid Tony no mind. 

Finally the door opened and a lithe, attractive young red-head stepped through. 

“Anthony Stark?” He wasn’t sure what the protocol was, so he all-too-quickly raised his hand. He felt like one of his students. She gave him a warm smile and invited him into her office. Tony had expected a dark mahogany room, with a writing desk and books about psychiatry, maybe one of those chaise lounges or couch for him to lie on. He was surprised when he was confronted by a cozy, but beautifully decorated office, with two cushy arm chairs and a small table between them. 

“Take a seat.” The woman said, motioning to the chairs while she readied a clip board with a steno pad and a pen. 

“Er, which side?” 

“Your choice.” After a moment, Tony took the far seat. It had a better view out the windows, and a view of the door, which Tony regarded as important, for a reason that was beyond him. “So, Anthony – may I call you Anthony?”

“Tony. Please.” He didn’t remember when he’d started preferring that. She wrote something on the steno pad; presumably his name. 

“Alright, Tony, you may call me Natasha. We talked a little on the phone. You said you’d had what you thought might be a panic attack? Do you have a history of high anxiety?”

“Not that I know of…” Her pen raced across the paper again. 

“Alright, why do you explain to me what it felt like, in your own words.”

Tony frowned. He really hated thinking about it. He started anyway; avoiding her eyes by looking around the room, “Well, I guess it felt like… Like my heart was jumping in my chest – like that feeling you get when you’re on a roller coaster and it goes down a hill or around a loop – and, when that passed, it felt like every breath I took never reached my lungs. It just sorta rolled around in my throat and then escaped.”

Natasha nodded, and wrote some more. “Alright, Tony, have you ever had any traumatic experiences in your life? Things that may have triggered this panic attack? Remember, you don’t have to explain anything, you can just nod if you feel like it.”

“Sure, my mom died in a car accident when I was twelve, and a year or two after that my dad got crushed by a junker he was fixing up. He’s paralyzed and has memory issues.”

Natasha nodded again, “Alright, why don’t we talk about that?”

“Nah, I don’t want to.” 

“Why not?”

Tony sighed, “Because that’s not what caused my panic attacks.”

“It’s not?” She crossed her legs idly, moving her clipboard to her thigh. “So, what caused it?”

This time, Tony ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward, as if he was discussing a conspiracy theory, “Both times it happened someone mentioned war. The first time, in the park, there were these two women talking about a prisoner of war. The second time I was having my students watch a documentary on nuclear power. The minute I heard nuclear bomb, everything went wonky.” 

Natasha frowned and wrote something down, “Have you ever been to war, Tony?” He shook his head. “Ever know anyone who has?”

“No. No one. I’m about as far removed from war as a person can get.”

“Hmm,” then more scribbling. Was she writing a novel over there? And was this supposed to make him feel better? Honestly, he felt the same as when he’d come in. 

“I don’t think this is helping.” He said, finally. “I mean… I don’t feel any different.”

She gave him another smile, “My job isn’t to make you feel better. You’ve got to do that yourself. I can only push you in the right direction. However, I am going to put you on a low dose of Sertraline.”

“Um, no. I don’t need any pills to give me artificial sanity, thanks though. Very thoughtful.” He shook his head, “What is it with therapists and pills, seriously? Do you have an agreement with the pharmaceutical companies or something?” 

“Yes.” She said, still smiling, “They give me free samples, and I help to ensure they’re targeting the right age groups, and inform them about side-effects.” Tony took a moment to be baffled before she continued, “And therapists prescribe pills because they honestly do help. Things like anxiety disorder and depression usually occur when there is an imbalance of serotonin in the brain, especially in cases like yours, where there isn’t a prevalent cause, aside from things that you’ve dealt with already. 

If it was an imbalance of blood-sugar, then we’d call it diabetes and your doctor would prescribe insulin to keep your blood-sugar levels in check. This is, honestly, no different. Different chemicals, different part of the body, same problem; your body simply cannot correct it by itself. So you take medicine. Does that make sense?” 

“Hm, never thought about it like that.” It actually made sense. And he called himself a science teacher.

Tony left his new therapist’s office with a second appointment slip and a prescription for what was apparently the generic version of Zoloft in his hand. He may have even felt a little better.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, slight hiatus. What can I say? Life's been crazy. I saw Paul McCartney live, and got my driver's license (eight years late?) in one week. 
> 
> Don't misunderstand. I make no excuses.
> 
> This chapter is a little short, but the next one is much longer.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, but only in Tony’s life would they come to an end so spectacularly. 

It took Tony a moment to realize the bruised and bloodied mess at his kitchen table was Loki. When it finally clicked that he knew those emerald green eyes, could recognize them anywhere, he was striding across the room and checking his injuries. 

“Jesus Christ.” He exclaimed, gently cradling Loki’s face and turning it left to right. “Jesus.. What happened, Lokes?” 

The man gave a sleepy grin, “Fell in with the wrong sort, I’ll be OK.”

“Bullshit. You probably have a concussion. Stay right there.” He ran off to the bathroom, grabbing some face cloths and his first aid kit, then back to the kitchen for a bowl of water. Finally, he pulled a chair close to Loki and started cleaning him up. Under the blood and dirt, he only had a few cuts - a split lip, a couple of scratches - and he probably didn’t need stitches. Still, he didn’t look good, but he declined the offer of a trip to the ER, claiming that he was fine, and that it would heal with time.

“What’s the ‘wrong sort’, anyway? Are you in with the Mafia or something? ‘Cause, Jeez, Loki, you should see yourself.” 

“No, no, no. Not the Mafia. If she were part of the Mafia, we’d all be fucked. She’s worse than the Mafia, but she doesn’t really deal with… With mortals all that much.” Tony was going to ask what he meant by ‘Mortals’, but one look at the other’s glossy eyes and he knew he wouldn’t get much coherence out of him. 

“Jesus,” he repeated, “You should’ve gone to the hospital, Lokes. Does anything else hurt? Broken ribs? Ruptured spleen?” Loki ignored his questions, or perhaps didn’t hear them.

“I just really wanted to see you. I wanted to know you were real, and I found myself here.” He admitted, avoiding eye contact. 

“Of course I’m real.” He said, pausing his ministrations. Loki smiled and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on Tony’s cheek. It was short, but it warmed him from the inside out, and he couldn’t help the wide goofy grin that spread across his face. 

Loki, however, sobered up and frowned deeply, “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry, Tony. That was incredibly unwise. What the Hel was I thinking?” 

“Unwise? I don’t think it was unwise.” Tony interrupted, “Actually, I liked it. I mean, it was very nice. I liked it a lot. I mean, I’ve been sorta wanting to talk to you because, see, I really li--” And then there was a hand over his mouth, preventing him from continuing that thought.

“Don’t,” Loki was shaking, eyes wide, “You dare finish that sentence. Don’t even think it. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t even be getting so close to you. I may have messed up everything because I’m too stupid to remember that I don’t get you in the end. I don’t even stand a chance. So, do me a favor; forget that happened, forget your feelings for me, and just focus on the tower. The one in your dreams. You’re nearly there, Tony.”

He wanted to ask how Loki knew about his dreams. He wanted to get angry and grab his wrist and demand an explanation - answers to all of his questions - but Loki was already standing and walking out the door, leaving Tony with bloodied towels and an empty feeling.

He thought it would be difficult to get to sleep that night, with all that had happened. He was surprised to find, when he finally sprawled out on his bed, that he was exhausted. He was out only moments later. 

He had another dream. They were back in the tower and the Loki who wore gold armor and had a spear (‘ _Glow-stick of destiny_ ‘, he smirked, and ‘ _Rock of Ages_ ’, and ‘ _Reindeer Games_ ’, and ‘ _Stag Beetle_ ’, and a hundred other nicknames around revolving around a golden helmet he wasn’t wearing) was talking. 

“You’re nearly there, Tony.” Dream-Loki said, “Remember the tower.” And Tony tried to remember. He tried to remember shining suits of armor and shrapnel in his chest. He tried to remember caves in Afghanistan and men named Ho Yinsen, and bombs with his name on them. Then he tried to remember money and women and a distant father and a dead father.

“What if…” he starts, noticing the wetness on his cheeks “What if I don’t want to remember?” 

“Then you’ll never know and you’ll always wonder.” Dream-Loki answers, pressing his staff to Tony’s chest. Tony remembers a metallic clink. He remembers an Arc Reactor in his chest, and he remembers saving lives. He remembers saving the world and Loki in chains and feeling _relieved_. And this time, when Loki tosses him out the window, he feels the cool embrace of metal envelope him and he feels safe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James demanded another chapter this week. 
> 
> I decided to be nice to him for once.

Loki was there when he woke, sitting at the table with a somber look on his face. Tony sat up in his bed, rubbing at his eyes and wondered if, perhaps, he was still dreaming. The pain in his chest, and the headache that burned near his eyes said no. 

“We should go somewhere.” Loki said, eyes focused on the mug of water in front of him. 

“Sure.” Tony’s voice was thick with recent slumber, “Where, like, the Bronx? There’s a bar not too far from here with a Tardis for a bathroom. I’ve always wanted to go, just never fou—“

“No. Somewhere further. Maybe Paris, or Monaco, or Reykjavik.”

Tony chuckled and stood, fixing his shirt. He spared a glance at Loki, whose face was twisted into a frown.

“Oh,” he managed, “You’re serious.”

“Please say yes, Tony.”

“I can’t.” Loki had opened his mouth to speak, but Tony wasn’t going to give in, “I can’t! Technically, I still have a job. How would it look if I just went on vacation while I’m supposed to be recuperating? Besides, I have no money to pay for a trip anywhere. I can’t just run off to Paris, or Monaco, or Reykjavik.” 

“I’ll worry about the money. You can tell your boss it was part of the healing process.”

“I’m not going to lie to Phil.” 

“Then talk to your therapist! I’m sure she would say it was a good idea!”

Tony all but growled in frustration, turning away from Loki and heading into the bathroom. The other man was persistent, however, following him to the door and knocking at it as he continued to talk. 

“Tony. Come out. I know you’re just standing there. Look, we can go anywhere you like. I just want to get away from New York for a bit. Please say something, Tony.”  
There was a moment of silence. Tony would’ve assumed the other had left, but he could still see his shadow under the door. Finally the man spoke again, this time with a hint of frustration in his voice.

“You can’t keep hiding from your problems. They’ll just get worse and worse if you let them fester. It’s not healthy, Tony. You did this after Afghanistan, and after the aliens attacked Manhattan. They called it Post-Traumatic-Stress. You just hid yourself away and drank and you kept having panic attacks because you did your best to ignore it. Well, that’s not going to happen here. We have too much to do.”

When had breathing become so difficult? When had his heart decided to lurch and speed up at the slightest provocation? When had the whole planet gone topsy-turvy; tilting on its axis and spinning wildly out of control? 

And when had Loki opened the bathroom door?

It must’ve been a while ago, because now he was sitting on the bathroom floor, nestled close with one arm wrapped around Tony’s shoulders and his chin tucked against the top of his head. 

He was trying to comfort him, murmuring softly; saying things like _‘Hush, now, you’re safe’_ and _‘I’m so sorry, Tony, I shouldn’t have said that’_. It made Tony feel like a child. At the same time, he really didn’t want it to stop. No one had held him like this in a long time. 

Then Loki’s hand was cupping his cheek, his thumb idly wiping away stray tears as he lifted his face to give him a warm smile. It was comforting – More than comforting – and Tony wanted to thank him for always being there, and gods, their lips were so close, if he just tilted his head and moved forward a bit they’d be touching and, _oh_.

Loki had been the one to move, pressing his soft lips against Tony’s, his thumb still insistently stroking his cheek. It was warm and pleasant and a little messy and _absolutely, stunningly perfect_.

But it was over too soon. Loki was pulling away with that look; the same one he’d worn the last time he’d kissed the other. Tony read it as guilt, with just a hint of regret mixed in. It made his gut lurch uncomfortably. He reached out and wrapped his arms around the taller man, pulling him close and hugging him in what he hoped was a comforting manner. He must’ve done well, because Loki seemed to melt against him rather quickly. 

“New Hampshire.” He mumbled against ivory flesh, “Let’s go to New Hampshire.”

Loki chuckled and Tony could feel the vibrations echo down his arms. “I wasn’t aware there was anything in New Hampshire.”

“You kidding? This time of year? Everything is in New Hampshire. The leaves are changing colors; looks like the whole state is on fire.” Loki ‘hmm’d’ quietly, taking this opportunity to wrap his own arms around Tony, “Come on, reindeer games, go to New Hampshire with me. It’s not New York.”

The man stiffened a little at the nickname, pulling back to smile at Tony, “Reindeer Games?”

“I, uh, called you that… In my dream.”

There was another musical chuckle, a quick nod, and then, “Alright. Fine, we’ll go to New Hampshire.”

“Woohoo! Ok, so, I guess I should call work, and tell them I’m going to be away. Oh, and I’ll call Natasha—“

“Natasha?” 

“Therapist”

“Heh..”

“And ask her to cover for me if anyone asks—“

“Sneaky.”

“Pack, leave Jarvis with the Bartons..”

"Bartons?"

“Neighbors, Clint and Barney. I think they’re carnies? Either that or they’ve got really bizarre tastes in fashion. Anyway, how about I meet you back here when you’re done packing?”

“Err… Yes. Alright.”

 

They parted and left the bathroom, and Tony immediately got to work; calling various people while simultaneously packing. He gave Loki a quick kiss before the other left. After that he managed to pack, unpack, and repack again at least three times. Getting frustrated, he decided to temporarily ignore the pack and bring Jarvis next door. The cat wasn’t entirely fond of the neighbors, but they loved having him. 

The door opened before he’d even knocked, as was habit, and the younger of the brothers stood before Tony in his usual purple and black leather pants.   
“One of these days I’ll figure out how you do that.” Tony mumbled. 

“I just stand here and watch you through the peephole. I probably have a huge crush on you and this is the only thing that keeps me from sneaking into your apartment and molesting you while you sleep,” was Clint’s dry response. 

“That’s all true,” Barney said, wandering towards the door. “Ooh, cat!”

“Alright, buying more locks for my door. I’ll be gone until Sunday. Be good for your gay uncles, Jarvy.” 

“We’re brothers, you twat!”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not gay, you homophobe.” Tony called back as he headed into his apartment.

When he was finished packing (after another fifteen minutes of un/re-packing) he collected his bags and headed out the door. Loki had yet to show up, but Tony figured he could meet him on the stairs or at the front door.

However, Loki was already at the front door when he got there, curiously devoid of luggage and staring at a sleek black car parked in front of him. Three men stepped out – one elder man with salt and pepper hair, and two young men in scrubs – and slowly started moving towards Loki. 

“Lucas,” The graying man said, taking another cautious step forward, “You need to come with me, now.”

Tony dropped his luggage in the hall and walked out to stand by Loki, whose confusion was clear on his face. 

“Oh, Lucas, you’ve made a friend. Have you told him, yet?” the man continued. He had a thick German accent that Tony desperately wanted to recognize. 

“Told me what?” Tony looked at Loki who remained silent, his brow furrowing. “Loki?”

The man tutted, “I suppose not, then. His name is not Loki. It is Lucas. He’s very ill, and he needs to get back to the hospital for treatments.”

“Sick?” Tony didn’t like the connotation that accompanied that, “Sick how?”

The man simply turned to Loki. When he did not respond, the man did so for him, “Mental illness. He believes he is the Norse god of mischief. He thinks there are superheroes and villains, et cetera, et cetera. He can be very dangerous, though, so it would be best if he came willingly.”

“Wait, wait…” Tony held a hand up, then pushed it through his thick hair. “You’re saying that he’s… He’s crazy.” 

“We don’t like to label it such, bu—“

“Tony, please, this is some sort of trick!” Tony looked at Loki, trying to read his face, but finding himself unable – perhaps even unwilling. 

“Is that why you wanted to leave so bad? To hide from… From—“ He waved his arm half-heartedly at the men, “—This?”

Loki reached out and took Tony’s hand, his eyes pleading, “No, Tony, no! Please think! Remember the tower!”

The men had stepped into action then, readying a needle, and surging towards Loki. The two nurses grabbed his arms and held him steady as the elder man plunged the needle into his upper arm. After a moment, Loki went limp, his hand slipping from Tony’s. 

“Very, sorry about that. Couldn’t risk him becoming violent again.” 

The men carried Loki to the car, as the suited man handed Tony a business card (Erik Selvigg, MD, PhD 555-8394). He nodded once, and slipped into the passenger seat, his face hidden by the tinted windows. The car sped off before Tony had fully comprehended the situation.


End file.
